


We Keep Meeting

by hoosierbitch



Category: 18th & 19th Century CE RPF, Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Bisexual Aaron Burr, Feelings, Feminist Aaron Burr, Five Times, Friendship, Gen, Revolutionary War, War, everyone is gay for alexander hamilton, he was a beautiful sonnuvabitch, some people are straight for alexander hamilton
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-24
Updated: 2015-12-24
Packaged: 2018-05-07 16:01:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5462579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hoosierbitch/pseuds/hoosierbitch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five times Aaron Burr met Alexander Hamilton.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We Keep Meeting

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Citagazze](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Citagazze/gifts).



> **The prompt** : It's difficult to name my favorite thing about this musical, but definitely one of my favorites is the dynamic between A. Ham and A. Burr. They're such perfect foils, and all the thwarted moments where they could have been friends or allies are so frustrating (in a good way). Really, I'd be happy with any kind of exploration of the relationship between the two. As they say, they keep meeting, so maybe some kind of 5 (or however many) times fic taking a look at how things changed for them? Or, y'know, epic rivalmance is always good too. Slash or gen are both good! I kind of read in a frustrated UST hateboner that remains unresolved, but go where you want.
> 
>  **Notes** : This is inspired mainly by the musical (which I have not seen, but which I have listened to/watched clips of/read about), but also draws a lot from Rob Chernow's biography, Hamilton, which is a truly excellent book. My apologies for any and all errors or historical inaccuracies!

_plus one: the prelude_

The evening was young, and already the gossip was spreading. Aaron was securely ensconced in a corner, surrounded by friends and syphocants. Heat pressed in on them from outside, lending an air of gravity to the proceedings. Appetizers were making the rounds, and he was taking the lay of the land. "Have you met the charity case?" John Arne asked. "The bastard orphan from the Indies?" 

Aaron nearly rolled his eyes at John Arne’s transparency. A self-professed social climber, John had long been Aaron’s source for information. He didn’t often get back to the town of his school days in New Jersey, but when he did, Aaron connected with John before he making any moves. 

“I haven’t had the pleasure,” Aaron replied. 

"I heard he's someone low-born royal's bastard offspring," John chimed in. "A quadroon. No one willing to claim him." 

"How old is he?" 

"Thirteen years," John said. "Or fifteen? What does it matter--it isn't as though he will be able to break your records." The boys around them laughed. Aaron smiled. As a Princeton graduate at the tender age of sixteen, Aaron had plenty of reason to feel proud. 

“Which one is he?” Aaron asked. There were various circles of people in the room, students and parents and patrons, an uneven blend of brains and breeding. 

John pointed, and Aaron saw Alexander Hamilton for the first time. He didn't look like a starved half-breed or quadroon, which the rumours implied. Instead, the new boy was pale-skinned, with bright blue eyes and a long hair that was only half-tamed by a hastily tied ribbon. He was slender to the point of delicacy, and moved like lightning through the room.

Supper that evening was simple; only three courses. The dessert that was served afterwards was so sour that Aaron put it aside after a mouthful. Everyone knew that a change was coming; some pressure in the air that bent their shoulders and kept them from looking up. What few remarks were made to the host made the scarcity of food seem like sanctity. A show of restraint and good taste, a voluntary sacrifice. A choice, not a deprivation. 

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Hamilton scrape the last bite from his plate, savoring it with an intensity that made Aaron feel voyeuristic. 

Aaron had never starved for food, but he was no stranger to hunger.

He did not introduce himself to Hamilton that night, but he never lost sight of him. It felt like he was looking into a warped mirror: he and Hamilton were two of the only young people who were entirely on their own, with no parents, grandparents, or relatives to stand near or converse with. Two orphans in a sea of families. 

Hamilton spent the evening dancing, quick and graceful, straying into various conversations long enough to generate laughter or consideration. Everywhere he went, he left ripples of attention in his wake. 

Aaron stayed with his own circle of friends, reinforcing his own standing as a clever, intelligent, well-connected man of the world. And he watched Alexander Hamilton dance. He would arrange to be introduced to Hamilton at a later date. There was no need to rush; unlike Hamilton's current admirers, Burr had no desire to be act the part of a moth, drawn helplessly into Alexander Hamilton's influence. 

He would wait until he could meet with Hamilton face to face, the two of them on the same ground, equals to each other even as they stood slightly apart from everyone else. He wondered what it would feel like, to look upon that bright flame; he wondered whether he would be mirror or moth, reflection or victim; friend or foe. 

 

_one: can i buy you a drink?_

They meet again two years later in New York City, in an early morning on the King's College campus. "Aaron Burr," Alexander Hamilton called, rather breathless. He was jogging over across the library lawn, getting dew up his leggings. Aaron extended his hand, and Alexander took it in both of his, shaking it with vigor. "I'm Alexander Hamilton, I'm at your service, sir. I have been looking for you--you are not the easiest man to hunt down." 

"I try to make it a habit to avoid being preyed on," Aaron replied dryly. Alexander removed his hand and smiled. Aaron did not let his gaze linger on the wry curve of the boy's lips. 

"I was told you would most likely be in the library." 

"It is often my habit to spend some part of the day there," Aaron admitted. "I may no longer be a student, but there is something about libraries that I find…" 

"Invigorating?" 

"Soothing." 

Alexander cracked a smile. "That too, I suppose, depending on which section one happens to be drawing from. But I wished to speak with you about other matters. I know that you applied for entrance to Princeton when you were even younger than I, and were granted exceptional admission--"

"Do you like the library best at night, or in the morning?" Aaron interrupted. He flushed for a moment under Alexander's scrutiny. It was not often his habit to engage in hasty interrogation. But he could almost smell the scent of parchment and ink wafting from Alexander's stained fingertips and wrinkled clothes, and it drew him in.

"The time between," Alexander finally replied. "After the lamps have been lit, but before the sun has risen." 

"That was my least favorite time," Aaron replied, genuinely startled. "The solitude--" He drew back, uncomfortable with his disclosure. 

He had never liked solitude. There was nothing more he could say about it that would not also imply, 'When I am alone, I do not wish to be.' Alexander Hamilton, with his fever-bright eyes and quick wit, looked more than capable of reading beneath his lies. 

“Some morning I study by the river,” Alexander said, in a halting tone. “I read aloud, or recite passages in Latin. I think the fishermen believe I am crazy.” 

"I am sure that isn't so."

"One of them made a gesture to ward off evil yesterday morning, and all I was doing was pondering Thucydides' portrayal of the Athenian ethos of constant expansion. I may not be officially enrolled in any courses, but the library is open to all." 

"You aren't officially enrolled?" 

"There has been a slight complication in my plans," Alexander said, with a baffled frown. "Which is what I wished to speak with you about." 

"Can I buy you a drink?" Aaron interrupted. They had been standing together too long, the two of them alone on the dew-laden lawn, the sunlight still soft and young. 

"That would be nice," Alexander replied, in a warm, pleased tone. 

"I have a place in mind." A tavern that served large portions of hot food and flagons of sharp, rich cider. Alexander Hamilton had grown no more than an inch since Aaron had first seen him, but he was just as thin. "And while we're talking, let me offer you some free advice." He was reasonably sure that, if he were to charge, Hamilton would turn out empty pockets.

He led the way to the tavern with Hamilton at his side, peppering him with questions and objections like a small dog nipping at his ankles. All things being equal, it wasn't an entirely unpleasant way to pass the morning.

 

_two: give it up for the groom_

It wasn't long before the war reached Cambridge. 

Aaron was among the first to join. At first, he fought for his country, with all the hope and fervor of youth. When his first commander died in his arms, and Aaron found himself carrying a corpse across a battlefield, he began to fight for the men at his side. It wasn't until Washington, that august, revered leader of men, turned him aside and denied recognition for his actions, that he began fighting for himself. He was the last Burr to carry the name, and he wanted it to be a respected one. 

He killed his first man in Quebec. It took him more ammunition that he cared to admit. The most generous description of his gunnery expertise was that he fired often, if not with great accuracy. 

He killed in Quebec, Philadelphia, Harlem, and, finally, Monmouth. 

His first impression of much of his country was a bloody one. He killed and commanded men in each of the states he travelled to.

The heat of Monmouth came closer to killing him than any British soldier had. Many of his men died from heatstroke. Aaron survived, although it came at a cost. As the oppressive summer reluctantly gave way to fall, he found himself trapped in New York City, without the health or stamina to rejoin the fight. 

There were few places for officers to gather. He wasn't surprised that he ran into Alexander, only that it didn't happen sooner.

"You look well," Alexander said, with a bow that was more of a nod. It was a kind lie. The man looked worn to a bone. The circles under Alexander's eyes hollowed him out.

"Thank you," Aaron replied, tucking the letter he was writing underneath his cloth napkin. He did not need Hamilton's opinion on his love letters. "I seem to hear news of your bravery almost daily. You and Washington make quite the pair." 

"Your record is no small thing either," Hamilton said. "Let me buy you a drink. I owe you my thanks--I hear you saved my life in Manhattan." 

"I do believe the price of a beer should make us even," Aaron said with a smile. The trade and currency of war was a familiar one. 

The conversation was stiff. He hadn't known Alexander to be anything less than painfully verbose. It wasn't until he caught sight of the ring on Alexander's finger that he remembered to congratulate him on the wedding. 

"I did invite you," Alexander replied, in an uncharacteristically child-like tone.

"I regret that I was not able to attend," Burr said, a little too gravely, to formally. "I have no doubt that it was beautiful ceremony."

"It was," Alexander said shortly. "Music and food and conversation. Friends and colleagues. The Schuylers are truly remarkable, I am grateful to be a part of them."

The silence between them was so uncomfortable that Burr wished he had not sat down. Perhaps he should invite Hamilton to his own wedding, though the gesture felt both premature and belated, as Theodosia had yet to divorce her first husband, let alone accept his most recent proposal. It would, by necessity, be a small wedding, as it was couched more in shame than in innocence, and he had no family who would stand for him. 

He was touched with an instant pang of recognition. "I should have attended," he said stiffly. "I am familiar with your situation. I imagine the balance of those attending was…unequitable." He tried not to think about Alexander, slight and quick, moving from place to place so quickly that he quite seemed to belong anywhere. He would have stood out; the only Hamilton in a room full of Schuylers.

Aaron did not know what else to say. He found himself without a way to talk about being alone, without implying an accompanying loneliness. When he spoke of himself, it was to avoid revealing unpleasant truths. With Hamilton, it would be a falsehood. The man was many things, but he never starved for company. 

"I neither want, nor need, your pity," Alexander replied, with unconcealed anger. "Nor do I deserve it." His elegant nostrils flared, his face going pinched. He looked so achingly like the orphan from the West Indies, and not a bit like the man single-handedly propping up George Washington. 

"I'm sorry," Aaron said. Hamilton visibly started. It wasn't often Burr apologized. "Any pity I offered was reflexive, not meditated. I wished to convey empathy. But that takes longer to make itself known." And Hamilton was not a patient man. "You have my empathy, though I know you do not want it. You also have my--my admiration. And, at any future weddings, you will have the pleasure of my company." A peace offering, from one orphan to another.

Alexander's graceful lips relaxed into a smile. It was so unlike his public persona that he looked like a different man; younger, less guarded, happier. "There will be no second weddings," he said. "Eliza has my heart. I do not think she week return it so that I may give it out to another."

"Theodosia is so for me," Aaron said. "I am sorry that I missed your first wedding, though I am pleased there will not be a second."

"Have you asked her?" Alexander's open expression was fixed on him. Aaron couldn't detect any lingering hurt or resentment. Alexander, unlike Aaron, did not seem to know how to hold a grudge. 

"No."

"Why on earth not?"

A million deflections fluttered through his mind. Hamilton, always so painfully, awkwardly honest, might even let him get away with it. "I am not certain what her answer would be," he said softly. Of all the secrets he was hoarding, this was the one that hurt the most.

"She ought to," Hamilton said, affronted. "Why wait, when the only better man has already married?" He smiled, pleased at his own cleverness. It was quite a lovely compliment, although it was wrapped with a jest.

"I'm in no hurry," Aaron said. "I am certain of her affection, even if she is not." 

"I must return to Washington."

"Take care of yourself," Aaron said. Not being able to join Hamilton on his journey back to the front lines felt like a physical pain, much worse than the lingering effects of heat stroke.

"See you on the other side of the war."

 

_three: after the war_

“How do you do it?” Alexander asked. 

Arron readjusted Theodosia’s jumper, which had an unfortunate tendency to bunch around her knees. “How do I do what, Alexander?” 

“How do you—” He waved his elegant hands in a complicated swirl through the air. 

“How do I fly?” Burr enquired. He kept his voice as flat and dry as possible, which, as he had predicted, made Alexander practically leap out of his seat in irritation. 

“How do you do that,” he said, pointing at Theodosia. “How can you be with her, after we—after everything we did, Burr, how can you—”

“You just have to take the time,” Aaron said.

“That’s one thing I don’t have enough of.” 

“We won the war,” Burr said. 

“I know.” 

“Why can you not just—” He searched for words, then sighed. There was so little use in talking to Hamilton. Words bounced off him like raindrops on glass. “We won the war,” he said again. “And if we don’t enjoy the spoils,” he continued, with a quick touch to Theodosia’s nose, which made her giggle, “then what was it all for?” 

“For freedom. Independence.”

“Life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness?” 

“Burr, if you quote Jefferson at me, I shall expectorate all over your daughter’s hideous romper.” 

“She is perfect and precious,” he replies. “And even Jefferson, like a broken clock, gets to be right sometimes.” 

 

_four: the duel_

Alexander Hamilton was unfortunately easy to kill.

 

_five: my friend hamilton, whom i shot_

The bust was a brilliant likeness. Alexander looked young and strong, vibrating with energy. He also looked beautiful—the cool, strong line of his nose, the smooth arch of his eyebrows, his curving lips. 

“If you’re waiting for him to spring off that pedestal and forgive you, you will be waiting an awfully long time.” 

He turned to see Eliza, who looked more like a statue than Alexander. Pale skin and black widow’s clothes. The time to mourn was over, but the mourning is not. 

“May I escort you home?” 

“No,” she said, drawing herself up tall. She still only came up to his chin. “I have business to take care of in the capital. And I hear you have affairs in Mexico that demand your attention?” He could not tell whether she was teasing him or not. 

“I wish you a safe journey,” he said, choosing to err on the side of polite ignorance. “What would we do without a Hamilton in the government?” 

“So many things,” Eliza said, in a generous tone of voice. “Lose wars. Go bankrupt. Expand slavery.”

"You hold the congress in such high esteem," he said. "I fear I shall blush." 

"I am as likely to cause you to blush as John Adams is to say a good word about my husband." 

"He is perhaps not the most reasonable man when it comes to the subject of the Hamilton legacy." 

"He would drag the name through the mud, stomp on it, and leave it there." 

"The Hamilton legacy," Burr echoed, the words slipping from his mind like errant children. "If it gives you any comfort, I am doing my part to ensure that he is remembered. Everywhere I go, people say, 'There goes the man who killed Alexander Hamilton.' I fear my name will be inextricably linked with his." 

"As is mine," Eliza replied. "I do not think I mind so much as you do." She turned back to the bust, with its sharp, still lines. "He was easy to love." 

"And easy to hate," Burr said, when the regret and shame inside of him became impossible to contain. It was an unfamiliar, violent force, and Burr was not--did not used to be--a violent man. 

"Perhaps both," Eliza said quietly; both an answer and a question. 

"Perhaps both," he allowed. Then, with a smile, he continued. "My lady, you give yourself too little credit." She turned to him and raised an eyebrow. He gestured to his own cheek. "I believe you have caused me to blush." 

She laughed, an uncommon sound in a somber place. "It is a good look on you, sir. You should endeavor to make yourself uncomfortable more often." 

"My daughter teases me mercilessly. If I never spend a calm day again, it will not be through lack of trying." As soon as he said the words, he wished he could take them back. Eliza's eldest was unwell. 

"Give Theodosia my regards," she said. 

"I shall. And all my best to you and yours." 

She nodded, a gracious, graceful gesture. It felt not unlike a benediction. "I have not said it before," he said, his words catching her before she reached the door. "And I do not intend to utter them again. But I am sorry." If he could take it back, he would. He would trade so much to have Alexander Hamilton back. There were few choices in his life that he regretted, few hasty moments, few foolish moves. It did not seem fair that he should fail when the stakes were so high. “Eliza--I should have known the world was wide enough for both Hamilton and me."

“Yes,” Eliza responded. “You should have.” 

When she left, it was only Aaron and the statue. If it had been up to him, he would have placed Alexander's memorial in the library at King's College. There it could rest, in the time between the fading of the day and the rising of the sun. Maybe then Alexander would finally be able to sleep. 

"I have to leave," he murmured. "My life, such as it is, is waiting for me. Theodosia is waiting. You would have liked her, I think. In a few years, she would have given you a run for your money." He let his fingers trace the lines of Alexander's face, letting himself gaze his fill. "I will see you soon enough."


End file.
